


Hey

by aeroport_art



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, PWP, Poetic, Smut, Top Merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-10
Updated: 2010-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 03:10:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeroport_art/pseuds/aeroport_art
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur comes and Merlin quite likes it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hey

“Come on,” Arthur says, “Come on and come fuck me.”

You’ll come on all right, it’ll be a humdinger. Your cock in his arse and his breath on your face; his breath blooms in heat, warm like hot mead as he breathes on your cheeks—

He exhales in heaves, you breathe him in deep. Arthur kisses you hard. It’s rough, it’s fierce, it’s _Arthur Pendragon_ and his tongue’s in your mouth.

 _Come on,_ Arthur whispers in between your teeth.

You don’t know what he’s begging for; he’s a little cock slut. Your cock’s in his arse and he’s rocking for more, hips bobbing up and down like it isn’t your _dick_ thrust inside of him. Riding him. Flesh to flesh and digging deep for the rest—

Your heart beats quick, his arse clenches your dick. _Merlin,_ he says, and his legs spread wide. It’s a sign. The inner skin of his knees speak to you and it’s clear. They say:

 _Want you buried between,_ like you weren’t born apart. And Merlin, you haven’t the heart to deny him _anything_. He hides his face in the space between pillows—bites a corner, locks his ankles, his legs twining around you in the tightest of snares.

Arthur’s blond hair is in his face. Arthur’s face as he falls from grace—

 _God,_ you swear under your breath. Arthur's stretched taut, string of a lute that’s been plucked and shivering.

 _Come on,_ you hear yourself saying, _Arthur, come on_. Arthur listens for once, keeps coming for you. You ride it out, letting go yourself. Your head drops forth and Arthur cranes up for your mouth, catches it, nurses it. Lips pursing throughout until you’re both tired, drawn out. 

There are low-murmured breaths shared between the breadth of your bodies (the space it takes to spread your fingers and touch). Arthur’s ring finger lingers over your thumb and you crook it just so, small reminder that he shouldn’t roll away. He wouldn’t anyway, but still you keep him close. Your throat gritty and hoarse, you say:

“Hey,” you say. “Hey let me stay this time. I won’t be in your way. I’ll wake myself when the sun’s come up, slip away before anyone else gets up—”

Clucking his tongue like a mother hen, Arthur paws down at your fringe ‘till it’s over your eyes. He sighs, replies, “Go to sleep, Merlin. Stay here for the night.”


End file.
